Why
I write?
22 February, 2000
Days of not writing are hard. I haven't been forcing it of late, rather giving in to my tiredness that arrives like a cloak in the evening.
And I wonder what to write — of my days, or my moods, or my memories?
I want to make each entry a crystal, a shining distillation. Words wrought and formed and hammered into shape, polishing me up for all to see.
And I wonder what to write — of my days, or my moods, or my memories?
I want each entry to open me up, split me asunder and deliver me up, fresh and bloody and alive. Just me. Into me see. Pure.
And I wonder what to write — of my days, or my moods, or my memories?
I want to show a me that no one sees. A me that only I've known and shown. A me that's kept itself hidden, unbidden and uncalled, just waiting a chance to walk tall.
And I wonder what to write — of my days, or my moods, or my memories?
I want to create a self in these pages. Someone I want to read about. Someone I care enough about to follow a life's progress.
So I dive for my memories, and raid the minutiae of my days, and sift and classify my moods, and each time with a slight skip of my heart and a final click of my mouse, send the words out.
Another layer added or uncovered depending on your philosophical bent.
If I knew no one read, I wouldn't write. Thank you for your time. I hope I give at least a small part of what you give to me.